


Of Ice and Death

by Birdy5678



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Eventual Smut, F/F, Lovecraftian, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 10:40:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20329783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdy5678/pseuds/Birdy5678
Summary: Within the ruins of a forgotten world, a group of treasure hunters must undertake their biggest job yet.





	Of Ice and Death

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, hope you all enjoy reading this thing.

The world which surrounds us is not of barren desert or concrete giants, instead, it is of snow.

A white abyss which encircles this world of shattered castles and decaying sculptures jutting out, casting uneven shapes.

A statue of some fallen God lies in the middle of this world, cracked and broken; he stands at attention, his spear aimed at the blackened clouds which every few seconds exude blinding streaks of lightning- his chiseled faced stalwart, hopeful, yet ultimately broken. A shadow of his former self.

This world which surrounds us is of freezing snow, a world with no heat and a world which will soon meet its end.

Yet, there is still life in miserable place.

Zck

Zchk

Zchk

Zhk

Her breaths heavy, clothe wraps itself around her form, dragging itself against the white beneath. The snow is up to her legs now, and each movement finds itself a battle for dominance.

The wind howls in the midst of rubble, reverberating off frozen brick which hide things best left forgotten and it is this same wind which whispers poems of things gone, lost to the sways of time, and though lost, their fragments still remain. Perhaps one may find solace in their stanzas, of ghosts not yet forgotten.

The storm is here, looming on the horizon and with each step closer she sees its roaring clouds charge.

It would be unwise to push forth, the winds would grab hold of her and the lightning would fry her to a crisp.

The woman’s eyes dart left and right, the bags plastered on her face a testament to nights where the ramblings of Void Spires creeped ever so close, speaking of things vanishing into the night, and fear; dark and rigid like the mounds of darkened flesh beneath the blue gemstones those creatures use for eyes.

She finds it,

A cavern, obscured by a cracked brick wall. A single k I c k is enough and soon she is faced with a deep and endless abyss colder than the snow outside.

Pale light bathes into the nothingness, allowing the briefest respites of sight; skulls.

Hundreds of the things, embedded in the white floors, cracked and broken, and like this place, largely forgotten. The faint stench of rot hangs in this air, finding its home amongst frozen dust particles and dead skeletons.

Lifting the facemask to the bridge of her nose, the woman prepares herself, steadying her stature and with a deep breath, jumps into the cavern.

Chk

Chk 

Chk chck chck

A thud and sickening crunch reverberate throughout the abyss, ricocheting off the walls and rubble; at the very least, what she hopes are just walls and rubble.

Her hand hovers over her rapier.

The world goes deafeningly silent, beads of sweat form upon her forehead with each passing second spent staring into an abyss deeper than space or time, void of purpose and rot.

The Void Smile.

Smiles A Devilish

But nothing becomes of it.

The world returns to its sounds of distant roaring winds and crackling thunder. The rumbling will start soon, that much she knows and being inside would always be a better option when it did.

Grunting, she lifts the bag off her back and onto the ground; another crack, her head lifts up.

Nothing.

Sigh of relief.

It’s a simple thing, made of scratched and battered leather; her backpack is large, almost reaching her waist. Within its string lies a world of bits and bobbles, artifacts collected from years of raiding, from hell and back. Of course, food is also present, dried up fruits and meat wrapped in cloth, please neatly atop the mess of trinkets.

Though, these are none of her concern at the moment.

Past the hundreds of papers at the bottom lies a small torch, its base that of a scratched and faded metal. A click of a button is all it takes and room is bathed in cool-green fire.

Shadows cling to the edges of this place, screaming in fear as they are cornered.

Just bones, bones and the howling wind above; thundering vibrations enclosing as the storm rolls on in.

The Woman sighs in relief, her hand lifting off the needle attached to her belt. It would be a long night.

The ethereal flame of the torch provides enough comfort for the time being, and so it sits propped up against some miscellaneous pile of rubble caused by some cave in or another. The woman in turn props herself next to it, enjoying the warmth.

In her hands rests a leather-bound book, its wounds tell of triumphs, of things past and present. It’s a journal, and like its exterior, its interior tells of triumphs and things of past and present.

“Should’ve never trusted that blasted cat.” She mumbles to herself.

The ethereal flame crackles silently in response. 

In her time of remembrance, she finds a spot clear of the many skulls and sets up came for the night. A simple bedroll crafted from fur of an unnamed animal; if she were in any mood to guess then she would’ve said that the fur originates from a wolf, which would’ve been impossible as wolves went extinct a millennium ago.

“I guess that makes it an antique.” She says, finding the mood to guess.

“An antique.” She says to herself again.

“Annnnnnnnnttiiiiiiiiiiiiiqqqqqqqquuuuueeeee” She sayyyyyyssss again. 

Blood stains her hands, looking at them she can’t help but feel anger flare in her chest.

“That fucking cat.” She whispers to the skulls. 

. . . . . . . . . . . .. …

It takes another three hours until the storm reaches; she doesn’t notice it until its almost too late.

It happens at night, calm at first; the sounds of the wind dampen, squelching like rain against a zinc roof. Small thumps at first, barely noticeable; growing with each oncoming sentence.

The woman’s head shoots up as her grip tightens around the weapon.

Squelch

Squelch

Squelch

S 

Q

U

E

L 

C

H {.} 

And then, like so many times before, the squelching stops.

The world is plunged into silence.

Like a sentence cut short.

Thump

Thump

Thump 

The world above rumbles, shakes and screams as an unearthly sigh reverberates from the throat of a being too-large to comprehend. 

Thump

Thump

Thump Thump Thump Thump.

The world shakes, dust falling to the frozen stone floors beneath.

Fear courses through her blood, striking like cold daggers as her eyes widen. Lifting the mask to her face, she braces herself against the wall.

Thump Thump Thump Thump.

The sigh is deep, a grinding mess of vocal cords which shake the world to its core. A cacophony of whirling metal. The storm, in response, screeching horns of victory as it marches forth; its trumpets flare with anger; beating drums drown out the sounds of the world outside.

Death hangs in the air.

Her grip upon the rapier tightens. 

It would be a long night.

The skulls position themselves facing the sky, waiting.

The world shakes.

The squelching has become unbearable now, furious slaps against the stone as though begging to be let in, bang, bang, bang.

Even after years of delving, she could never grow accustomed to a snow giant’s aura.

T H U M P, T H U M P, T H U M P.

The steps grow closer, so close.

Cold breathes erupt from a cage of frozen teeth and the world freezes along with them.

The Cold’s tendrils snake down the stone of a forsaken castle leaving a trail of snow in its path. It moves rhythmically, as though following the beat of the drums. Side-to-side, front-back, thump thump.

The Cold splits into two

Then three.

The Cold finds comfort in the corners, it burrows itself in and from its form it sprouts like branches of a tree; spreading.

Frozen, fear courses through her being, striking itself deep within her chest.

It’s as though time slows, the blanket of frost freezing time.

Seconds …………..

Become…… Minutes……………

Minutes…… Become………… Hours. …………………..

The storms swirls and gurgles, shifting and turning and eventually halting.

The storm continues, but it’s as though the squelching has overloaded, its throat grown hoarse.

The beating of the drum quells, muscles sore.

And within the silence, the frozen storm, the woman rises from her quaking and shivering knees and sings.

It’s a simple song, one only possible through shaky breathes and terrified eyes. A quiet melody reverberates throughout a frozen world as the storm continues its silent march throughout the nothingness above.

The world shakes, but no sound erupts besides that melody.

Melancholic and nostalgic, it reeks of a home the woman has never truly known.

The woman sings a song within the stomach of a dead world.

And the world listens. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, if you enjoyed it or hated it please tell me in the comments :>


End file.
